Life sometimes feels like a constant revolving door, and each time I walk out there’s a funeral occurring
Both in the literal and metaphorical.
I said goodbye to my grandma when I was 13. I haven’t stopped since.
I didn’t know how many things you could hold funerals for.
For people who are still alive but slipped through your fingers before you even noticed they were gone, for the past versions of yourself haunting you deep down inside the corners of your gut, for the childhood journal you kept all your life’s goals in that has suddenly vanished from your bookshelf.
I’d like it to stop.
I’d like to walk out of the revolving door and enter a room where a baby has just been born.